The cage he’s built for you is so beautiful, you almost forget it’s there.
❤︎ Synopsis. In a love that teeters between devotion and obsession, escape is futile—his jealousy isn’t just possessive, it’s a consuming force that leaves no room for freedom. With each calculated act, he dismantles your world, ensuring you’ll always belong to him, body and soul.
♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.
♡ Pairing. Yandere! Alhaitham x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Diluc x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Zhongli x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Dainsleif x Fem. Reader
♡ Headcanons. Heart’s Chains – Part 1
♡ Word Count. 2,801
♡ TW. dom + top yandere, non con, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non con kissing and touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats
♡ Alhaitham – The Scholar’s Cage.
“Your freedom is the illusion I designed for you. Do you see it now?”
Alhaitham’s jealousy is a quiet, suffocating force, crafted with precision and intellect. It doesn’t roar or rage, nor does it seek to overpower with brute strength. Instead, it threads through the very seams of your life, a methodical and unrelenting presence that tightens its grip with every passing day. His love is not chaotic—it is controlled, sharpened into something surgical, leaving no room for resistance.
You don’t notice it at first, the way he dismantles your autonomy. It begins with simple suggestions, his calm voice dripping with reason. “Why waste time with them? They don’t understand you.” A polite dismissal of your acquaintances, a small reorganization of your daily routine—all done under the guise of care, of making your life more efficient. Slowly, the world outside his orbit fades into obscurity, replaced by the inescapable reality of him.
Each step is calculated, deliberate, like the turning of pages in his meticulously annotated tomes. Alhaitham doesn’t need to raise his voice or resort to crude displays of anger. His jealousy operates in silken whispers, in arguments so flawlessly logical that to disagree with him feels like an admission of ignorance.
“You waste your time on frivolities,” he states, his tone flat but unyielding. His eyes pierce through you, sharp and unreadable. “Do you truly believe anyone else sees you for who you are? I’ve devoted myself to understanding you, shaping a life where your brilliance can thrive. What have they done?”
And when someone dares to overstep, lingering too long in your presence or speaking to you in tones he deems too familiar, Alhaitham does not act impulsively. No, his retaliation is an art form. The offending individual doesn’t disappear suddenly—that would be too crude, too obvious. Instead, they find their world unraveling.
A missed promotion, an inexplicable reassignment to a far-off land, their life tangled in bureaucratic webs they can’t escape. By the time they realize the Scholar’s hand in their downfall, it’s already too late. You notice their absence, perhaps even question it, but Alhaitham’s explanation is maddeningly irrefutable.
“They were a distraction,” he says simply, his voice devoid of emotion. “You don’t need people like that cluttering your life. Trust me, it’s better this way.”
He’s maddeningly composed, his jealousy cold and unyielding, a stone wall against which your protests shatter like glass. And yet, beneath his calm exterior lies a hunger so all-consuming it feels like an abyss, ready to swallow you whole.
In intimacy, that hunger reveals itself in the way his hands move over you—not hurried, but deliberate, like he’s studying you, mapping every inch of your body with the same precision he applies to his research. His touch is a paradox, both clinical and possessive, as if he’s documenting every reaction, every tremor, every gasp, to remind you that no one else could ever know you this intimately.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. His voice is steady, each word a carefully crafted statement of fact. “Not just your body, but your mind, your soul. Every thought you have—I’ve already claimed it.”
There’s no room for resistance in his embrace. When he takes you, it’s a symphony of control, every movement deliberate, every whisper a reminder of how deeply he owns you. He doesn’t seek to hurt; pain is a crude tool, unworthy of his intellect. Instead, his love is an overwhelming force, designed to erode your defenses until you can no longer imagine a world without him.
And when he looks at you, there’s something terrifying in his gaze—a blend of devotion and dominance that leaves you breathless. You see yourself reflected in his eyes, not as a partner, but as something precious, something he’s spent his life perfecting. And as much as you might wish to escape, a part of you knows the truth.
“You’ll thank me one day,” he says, his voice as steady as ever. “When you finally understand that no one else will ever love you like I do. Your freedom, your independence—they were illusions, distractions. I am your reality now. Do you see it?”
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♡ Diluc – Ember’s Obsession.
“There’s a certain poetry in the way flesh burns. Shall I show you what it means to belong to me?”
Jealousy in Diluc is not a sudden blaze—it’s a simmering ember buried deep within his chest, smoldering until provoked. And when that ember finally ignites, it consumes everything in its path. His rage is a tempest of fire, and his vengeance is exacting, merciless, yet meticulously controlled. To call it passion would be a mistake; this is something darker, primal, and utterly destructive.
The tranquility of the winery is the first thing to vanish when his jealousy peaks. The birds no longer sing, the soft rustling of leaves becomes an oppressive silence, and the air carries the faint, acrid tang of smoke. The vineyards, once a symbol of beauty and life, become the stage for his wrath. The trespasser who dared covet what was his is gone before you even realize it, their existence wiped away as if they never belonged to the world.
When you ask, his eyes burn with an intensity that freezes you in place. There’s no need to raise his voice—his silence is deafening, his actions more eloquent than words. The blood on his gloves isn’t cleaned, the charred remains of their belongings left just close enough for you to see. He wants you to understand the cost of disobedience, of entertaining the thought of anyone but him.
“Why are you trembling?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like embers crackling in a dying fire. He steps closer, his gloved hand brushing your cheek, a tender gesture at odds with the ferocity in his gaze. “Surely, you knew how this would end. They weren’t blind. They saw you. And I don’t forgive those who covet what’s mine.”
When Diluc kisses you, it’s bruising, his lips pressing against yours with a feral desperation. His hands are hot against your skin, leaving an almost burning sensation in their wake, a reminder of the fire he wields and how easily it could destroy you. He holds you tightly, his grip a cage, as if you might vanish if he let go.
The manor becomes your prison, the towering walls that once promised safety now looming like an inescapable fortress. He replaces the staff with people who would die before they crossed him, their loyalty bought or burned into submission. Your freedom dwindles day by day—no visitors, no letters, no life beyond the world he’s carved for you.
Even in his tenderness, there’s a darkness that pervades. When he pulls you into his arms at night, the weight of his obsession is suffocating. His fingers trace the curve of your throat, his touch almost reverent. His words, however, betray his madness. “If you ever think of running, don’t. Fire purifies everything, even memories. You won’t last without me. And I won’t let you.”
He doesn’t need chains to bind you; his fire does that for him. You feel the heat of his wrath even in his absence, a smothering presence that lingers in every room. The scent of charred wood clings to your senses, a constant reminder of what lies in wait should you ever defy him.
Yet, in the darkness of his obsession, there’s a twisted beauty—a fervent devotion so consuming it becomes poetic in its destruction. Diluc’s love burns, and like moth to flame, you can’t help but stay, even as it threatens to destroy you.
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♡ Zhongli – The Stone Emperor’s Dominion.
“Erosion affects everything… but my love for you will endure until the last star in the cosmos burns out. Whether you want it or not.”
Zhongli’s jealousy is an ancient, unyielding force, as patient and inevitable as the shifting of tectonic plates. It doesn’t erupt like fire or howl like the wind—it seeps into every crevice of your life, an invisible weight that crushes resistance beneath its relentless pressure. His love is not the passionate frenzy of youth but the solemn, eternal claim of an Archon who has witnessed millennia. To him, you are no mere mortal; you are an artifact of immeasurable value, something to be preserved and guarded with the ferocity of a dragon.
The world he creates for you is gilded, opulent, and suffocating. The room he keeps you in is not a prison at first glance—it’s a sanctuary, filled with treasures and comforts that most could only dream of. The air carries the faint scent of incense, rich and intoxicating, lulling you into a false sense of security. But the longer you stay, the more you notice the details: the impenetrable walls, the locks on the doors that click softly but firmly behind you, the way every window seems to frame the same unchanging landscape.
The jewelry he adorns you with is exquisite, every piece a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Gold cuffs around your wrists, delicate yet unyielding; a collar around your neck, encrusted with amber that seems to glow in the light. He drapes you in finery not to celebrate your beauty, but to mark you as his possession. Each piece is a reminder that you belong to him, that his touch lingers on your very skin.
“You are a treasure beyond mortal comprehension,” he murmurs, his voice a rich baritone that reverberates in your chest. His golden eyes, warm and commanding, hold an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. “And treasures must be protected. The world would destroy you with its greed. Only I can preserve your perfection.”
When someone dares to approach you with intent that Zhongli deems improper, the earth itself seems to revolt against them. Their screams echo through the mountains, raw and unrelenting, as the ground splits and swallows them whole. He doesn’t act in haste—his punishments are deliberate, poetic in their cruelty. He encases them in stone, their faces frozen in terror, their bodies turned into monuments to his wrath.
He brings you to see them, not out of malice but necessity. His explanation is calm, almost tender, as he gestures to the stone effigies lining the mountainside. “This is what becomes of those who fail to understand their place. Do not mourn them, my love—they were nothing but dust, unworthy of your light.”
In intimacy, Zhongli is an overwhelming force. His touch is unhurried but suffused with a quiet dominance that leaves you breathless. Every gesture, every kiss, is deliberate, as though he’s carving his presence into your very being. His hands glide over your skin like sculptor’s tools, firm yet reverent, shaping you into something only he can claim.
“You are mine,” he whispers against your ear, his breath warm and steady. His voice carries the weight of an oath, a declaration that transcends mortal comprehension. “The stars may fall, the earth may crumble, but you will remain at my side. You will see eternity through my eyes.”
Even his affection feels like a trap, his love as unyielding as stone. There is no escape, no corner of the world where his reach cannot find you. He doesn’t need to shackle you with chains—his power, his presence, is enough to bind you to him. His jealousy is not a fire that burns hot and fast but an eternal petrification, turning you into a piece of his world, preserved forever within his grasp.
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♡ Dainsleif – The Eternal Hunter.
“You think you can hide from me? You forget, little one—I was forged in the abyss. There is no shadow I cannot find you in.”
Dainsleif’s jealousy is a force older than time itself, a chilling void that consumes everything in its path. It is not fiery or chaotic but cold and relentless, like the creeping frost that settles over a dying world. His love is not the kind that comforts or soothes—it isolates, suffocates, and ensnares, binding you to him in a cycle of obsession and despair.
You only begin to understand the depth of his control when it’s far too late. Every path you walk, every whispered conversation, every fleeting thought of freedom—it all leads back to him. The world feels smaller with each passing day, the shadows deeper, and his presence inescapable. He is always there, watching, waiting, a hunter biding his time.
When he appears, it’s always when you least expect, stepping from the darkness as though he is the shadow itself. His eyes glow faintly, a piercing luminescence that chills you to the bone. Tonight, he drags behind him the lifeless body of the one who dared to think you could be theirs. Blood drips steadily onto the floor, pooling like spilled ink, staining the silence of the room.
“You thought I wouldn’t know,” he murmurs, his voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of centuries. His expression is calm, unnervingly so, but his eyes burn with quiet fury. “Did you think they could take you from me? That anyone could?” He steps closer, his shadow engulfing yours, his presence as suffocating as it is magnetic. “Not the gods. Not even death itself. You are mine, little one. And nothing can change that.”
Dainsleif does not rage or scream; his fury is measured, deliberate, and terrifyingly methodical. The evidence of his jealousy is etched into the world around you—a ruined village, a bloodstained battlefield, a silence that feels too heavy. He ensures you see it, ensures you know the lengths he will go to preserve his claim on you.
And when his hands touch you, they are impossibly gentle, the contrast as cruel as it is deliberate. He traces the scars he’s left on your skin—some visible, others invisible, etched into the deepest corners of your soul. Each mark is a story, a vow, a declaration of his ownership. His touch lingers, reverent and obsessive, as though you are a relic of his own design.
“You see these marks?” he whispers, his voice a mixture of awe and menace. His fingertips graze the lines on your skin, the memories of his possessive love. “They tell the story of what you are to me. They are the proof of eternity, of something no one else will ever touch.”
There is a madness in his devotion, one born not of fleeting passion but of centuries of suffering and longing. You are his anchor, the one thing that grounds him in a cursed existence, and he clings to you with the desperation of a drowning man. Yet, his love feels like a weight, an unyielding chain that drags you into the abyss alongside him.
“Do you feel it, little one?” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your ear as he holds you in an unbreakable embrace. “The weight of eternity? That is my love for you—boundless, inescapable, unending. You cannot run from it, and you cannot escape me. I will follow you through every shadow, every lifetime, until nothing remains but us.”
Even in intimacy, Dainsleif is overwhelming. His touch is both a promise and a warning, every caress laden with a sense of inevitability. He moves with a precision that leaves you trembling, as though every moment is calculated to remind you of his dominance. His kisses are slow but consuming, pulling you under like a tide, his words soft yet chilling as they thread through your mind.
“You can fight me, but it’s useless,” he breathes against your lips, his tone almost tender but laced with quiet menace. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And the moment you tried to run, you sealed your fate.”
In Dainsleif’s arms, you are both cherished and caged, his love a prison of cold eternity. No matter how far you go, no matter how deep you hide, he will always find you, his shadow stretching across the expanse of time itself. You are his, and there is no escape.
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𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 